My Mom is Here and We Love Cats

My mother  has arrived for the holidays. She is staying for a whole week and I get her all to myself! I am very excited to have her here. She is really good company and is very low maintenance, except when it comes to big decisions like what necklace to wear or what to have for lunch. She needs help with these decisions. She can raise children, build libraries, teach school, and organize conventions, but she can’t figure out if a brooch and a necklace together is too much. God, I love her.

We don’t have too much planned for while she is here. However,  she usually wants to have her hair done at some point during the visit, and up until last year this was the most stressful thing about her visit for me. I would make an appointment for her with stylists I thought might be good at doing “mom” hair but she’d always come out saying “Oh, it will do, but it’s just not like how when Char does it”. This is akin to saying to me “Daughter, you have failed me once more”. 

My mom has been going to the same hair dresser for about 20 years. Her name is Char and I don’t think she’s taking any new clients, so don’t even bother.  I’m pretty sure Char will trump me in the will. Char could make a painting out of entrails and my mom would say it was the best thing ever. If my mother won the lottery she would truck Char around with her everywhere to make sure she had perfect “Char” hair every day. 

My mom and I will play several hands of rummy, in which we are equally matched. When we play, all pretense of good sportsmanship is abandoned. We call it “Cut Throat Rummy”.  The winner gets to gloat and the loser gets to call the winner bad names. 

We have kept many of our score cards over the years. I have searched the house for one, as she tends to mail me score cards that show her winning by a huge margin. Just to keep me in my place, I guess. I can’t find one though. I imagine she has them tucked away somewhere. Stockpiled. Ready to strike. Here’s what one might look like:

One of the best things about my mom’s visits is that she doesn’t require a lot of management. She’s as happy as am I to just sit around, reading and talking about how much we’d like to be eating chocolate and how much better cats are than most things in the world. 

She has always had cats 

1958

1971

1990

2009

My mater has instilled in me - to my marrow, I tell you - that cats are better than every other thing on the face of the earth.

My cat Fiona, for example, is a world of awesome packed into a 10 pound purring fur bag. 

Fiona plays fetch. In the middle of the night we’ll hear these tiny mews and in the morning we will wake up to gifts she has brought us throughout the night. Pens. Cat toys. Rolls of plastic dog-poop bags. One sock. 

She has a definite routine and knows when it’s time to get brushed, when it is time to get evening snacks, when it is time to play the flop on the floor and let Daddy scratch my belly game, and when it is time to go to bed. She’ll meow at me if it’s time for afternoon nap and I’m not accompanying her. I do my very very very best to accommodate her napping needs. She follows me around the house looking at me like I am made of gold and light (and that kitty kibble flows from my sleeves).

Brian is not so sure of Fiona’s amazingness as she has been peeing on his stuff lately. Not mine though, so we can’t tell if she’s got an issue with her urinary tract or with Brian’s existence. He knows better than to ask me to chose between him and the cat. She pees in Brian’s sock box (he keeps his 8,000 pair of identical grey wool socks in an old milk crate). 

She chews the wires of Brian’s expensive fancy headphones. She sits on the bannister above a two story drop, just to freak us out. She weaves in and out of our feet when we are going down the stairs. Apparently she can’t decide if we are awesome, or if she wants us dead.

She will sit on my needlepoint when I’m needlepointing, but not on my lap. 

She will not sit on anything that is faux fur, but she will bathe it. Maybe she thinks it’s kin.

So for the next week, the girls will be all together in the living room - my mom, Fiona, Gracie (my heinous sweet sheltie) and myself. Knitting, shedding, being angry and needlepointing, respectively. Brian will be in the basement with Sam wondering how two women can talk about doilies for so long.

We'll miss you, Brian. Your supper is in the fridge.

Men Are So Mysterious

I’m sure I will never understand men. Apparently there is more to being a man than peeing while standing and not being able to say the word “tender”. That is not to imply that men cannot BE tender. Yes, of course a few of them can. Usually when a man is tender he is a veterinarian or Jimmy Stewart. But saying the word “tender”.... they can’t do it. I’ve seen them try and it’s just pathetic, really.

I do wonder what makes men tick and no matter what you say, I just can’t believe that Cosmopolitan Magazine is going to be able to shed any light on this great mystery. So I have a lot of questions.

If you know the answers to any of the questions posed here, please leave a reply in the comments section below. You can reply anonymously, if you like, and I will not be able to know who said what.  I follow each question with my suppositions.

Thank you in advance.

1. When men sit down, do their bits all squish up?

I think that yes, men’s bits do all squish up when they sit down. I imagine it would feel like a few small water balloons in your underwear.

2. Are all men proud of their poops?

I think all men are so proud of their poops that it’s ridiculous and adorable. Brian once made his into an ashtray for me when he went to camp. 

3. Do men worry about their appearance? I mean all the time?

Men worry about their appearance, but only in that they are concerned that their incredible good looks will be like lasers and burn out the eyes of all women in a 50 foot radius. That’s why you see the kinds of things you can’t unsee at certain nude beaches in the Caribbean. Those men are 100% positive that they are dangerously sexy and hairy in their weird mesh thong that just looks like they put a lingerie washing bag on their wiener.

4. Do men care if their girlfriends are fat?

Men don’t care if their girlfriends are fat. Oh wait. I just asked Brian and he said that yes, men care very much if their girlfriends are fat. I asked him, what do they think if  their girlfriend gets fat? And he replied “Ahhhhhhhhhhh. But they would never say that”. I then  asked him “what would they say, then?”. He replied, “Kill me now”.  An online survey  found that 50% of Canadian men would dump their girlfriend if she got fat, although they don’t describe what they mean by “getting fat”.  I am assuming that it means gaining any weight at all.

This is a huge, stupid anxiety for me as I am gaining back all the weight I lost over the past two years. Please don’t leave me because I’m getting fat, Brian. Leave me because I am a bitch or because you have decided to become a monk or a smoker. Or because I have been poisoning your dinner a little every day.  But not because I am getting fat. 

5. Do men get those awful horrible stabbing ass pains that my friends and I call “Holy Dinahs”? You know, where you actually have to lift your butt up off the chair because you don’t know what’s going on and what the hell and do I have bum cancer?

Men do not get Holy Dinahs. Men seem reluctant to discuss stabbing ass pains.

6. If men could do away with Valentines Day, would they?

Men would ban Valentine’s day if they thought it would get them out of having to eat dinner at any restaurant that is referred to as “fusion”. 

7. What is a man’s greatest fear?

Men’s greatest fear is having a fat girlfriend. Or having man-boobs. And also they fear scary clowns. I looked online and a sample of what people think mens’ greatest fears are include: their partner leaving them; failure; having too many feelings; being thought of as feminine; having a small wiener; being ridiculed; balding; being poor; running out of beer and cheese.

8. For men, what is more important, pooping or watching the shootout to the end?

Men will poop their pants in order to watch the shootout to the end. They say they aren’t happy about it, but I’m not buying it. In fact, I believe men frequently just poop their pants because they are men and see it as their right.

9. How much of what women say do men take seriously?

Men take what women say very seriously. Except for when women talk about  their “feelings” or the “relationship. At those times, men go to the place in their brains where there are Saturday morning cartoons on. When women talk about “connecting”, men are mentally pouring themselves a bowl of Captain Crunch and settling down to Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

Men also don’t tend to take women seriously in the workplace. Still!

Brian takes me very seriously . He better or I will seriously get “medieval on his ass” and I do not mean sexually. Necessarily.

10. Would a man rather eat 10 small cans of  cat food in one go,  or go on a date with someone they met at a Walmart in Des Moines? I mean, if they could only choose one.

Brian says he’d rather date someone he met in a Walmart in Des Moines. Which is so sweet, because that’s where we met. However, that’s the last time I feed him delicious cat food. What if I I could combine the two choices, though, to make it easier for my love. Like, I’d have to kill a woman in a Walmart in Des Moines (risky, I know, but he’s worth it). Then I’d have to put her in the freezer so she wouldn’t get too much more stinky. Then I’d put a popsicle stick in her ear and spread cat food on her head and make a trashcicle. He could drag her to a movie date by her frozen ham-arm.

11. Do men care about larger world issues such as the environment?

Yes, men care very much about the environment that contains nachos. Otherwise, no. They do not care.

Some might say, hey Elpoo, the answer to all of the above is “Who cares what men think?”. 

Well I do. I care very much.  It’s not because I want all men to like me. No, it's  not that at all. I just want all the hot men to like me. The hot and/or rich men.  The ugly-stupid men, ah, who cares if their bits squish or they get stabbing ass pains. But for the super sexy and rich man, well, I want to know how they tick so I can manipulate them in to giving me what I want. 

You know that this is all moot anyway. I can’t really use the knowledge in any meaningful way. I’m already married, so it’s not like I’d improve myself or alter myself in any way to impress a man. I’ve got one trapped already. Trapped in a web of his own making. Pass the cake.

Bwhahahahahahaha,


Ouch. My bum.

Foodie Friday - George Street Diner

There is only one this that is better than my friends. And that is brunch with my friends. Well, basically, it’s like lunch for me because they all sleep in until, like, 9am on the weekends, so I have to wait around and wait and wait until they get their crap together. 

We have a couple usual spots, but our favourite is The George Street Diner at 129 George Street at Richmond.

We started going there because it is owned and run by our favourite wait staff person ever, who used to work at the Senator, but left to start up her own place. And how fabulous it is. Classic diner food with a twist.

where the magic happens.

sassy menus

Mmm. Delicious food items.

Check out their Blog for specials and whatnot. No nudity so far.

Ash, the owner, is small and Irish. That’s all you really need to know about her. 

Oh, and she can swear like a trucker. 

"Heck" she says.

She’s probably the only person I will ever forgive for liking The Doors. That’s right. If you like The Doors, it’s just not on, ok? You and me? Not gonna happen. She is tiny, but I wouldn’t want to meet her in a dark alley. She’d probably be able to scramble all over me like a spider monkey and stab me with tiny Irish swords. For that is what the Irish do. Or so I am told.

She has, so it happens, the most infectious and charming accent. It takes ALL OF MY WILL to not lapse into a horrible Irish accent when she talks to us. Sometimes, I can’t control it. It’s pretty hard to stop myself. She looks at me like I’m brain damaged. With pity, but also some measure of disgust.

The usual suspects at brunch are myself, Ryan and Peter, Megan and sometimes Jane. Sometimes Bettina will join us if she is able to drag herself away from her weekend Flashdance marathons. Never could figure out what she likes about that movie. Once in awhile Sarah will come, too, but not enough for my liking. 

Sarah was in Montreal that weekend.

I often order the poached eggs with home made Irish soda bread (You. Will. Die). 

Last piece of soda bread. I ate it fast. With marmalade.

Megan likes her pancakes. Ryan goes for the Irish breakfast with Belfast ham. Peter usually gets yogurt and Irish soda bread. Bettina brings her own breakfast from home because she’s German and thinks that no brunch place makes buns and meats for brunch. She likes buns and meats. She misses Germany.

Megan's fattoush salad

Ryan's fattoush salad is more cheerful than is Megan's.

a stranger let me take a picture of her mac and cheese. She asked for bacon with it!

my pear and beet salad with goat cheese.

a stranger's grilled cheese.

The place is frequented by hipster douche-bags and aging hipster douche-bags like me and my friends. The ubiquitous guy with 5 o’clock shadow (at 11am) and glasses with black plastic frames. His girlfriend/partner/wife with dyed red hair and a knit cap with a flower on it. There are normal people, too.

portrait of Ryan in the light of brunch. His glasses are not douchie.

some bitch loves her coffee

 It’s right down town, about a 10 minute walk from Dundas and Queen - so you should go there. And try the lemon marmalade that Ash makes and sells. She is always out of the marmalade (both orange and lemon varieties) when I want to buy some, and it makes me cry from anger. She also sells mixes of the Irish soda bread which I am itching to try out.

Ash with freshly made blackberry jam that she makes for the diner. I'm not sure if she sells it or not. If she does, she will run out when I want some.

Megan samples the jam. She gives her approval by stamping her foot 4 times like a horse that can count.

So go. Tell Ash I sent you. And tell her in a bad Irish accent. She LOVES that.